Looking out the lenses of a microscope (I feel like a 19th century explorer—) Down on a field of erythrocytes whose red globular dots span the horizon like geographical features do a view from a mountain The feeling that I get, is no different from when I see pictures of the Earth from space, from some NASA mission that occurred decades ago— when cosmic perspective was caught in the reaction of photons and chemicals in paper, like a breath of someone you loved caught, if it could be caught, in a glass vial, forever to be held close to the heart—The mind is a rolly-polly, crawling over time and experience, but most of the time we’re stuck in a small piece of turf, a small cutting of grass or twigs or bushes—loamy but parochial; Seeing something really small like RBCs or really big Like the Earth from space, can give us the experience of crawling over a thousands turfs, over a thousand lifetimes And that experience says only one thing: You are alive! You are alive! You are alive! And fuck the rest, the rules, the Procrustean ways in which we trap one another hurt each other, make each other afraid. Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! Art! Art! Art! Dance! Sing! A procession of feelings, that make you want to burst from your shell into pure living—That’s what’s beneath the surface; That’s the deep truth, the hidden truth: Be! Be! Be! Thousand complexities like the curlicues of vapor off an airplane’s wing, winding around molecules and making them sing!
September 14, 1966 — Backdropped by the magnificent planet Earth, the Gemini 11 Agena Target Vehicle is tethered to the Gemini 11 spacecraft. One of the main objectives of the mission was to rendezvous two objects in space, a major step toward the subsequent Apollo missions when the Command/Service Module docked with the Lunar Module after it landed on the Moon. (NASA)
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In Bed and In Bed: The Kiss 1892-93
Poetry and art are like thunder to me
How come they’re so hidden in the modern world?
If you spoke out a poem, which had death hidden in it or life
No one would care, unless you shouted it or screamed
The words themselves would have no meaning
Only experience, observation, thought, feeling make them real
And our world has too thick a skin, to realize in a flash like that, something really, truly great or new.
One day, maybe, I’ll commit suicide, so I can become a bunch of microorganisms and decaying organic molecules, instead of a human being. I feel like soil is, in general, more intelligent and has a more beautiful mind than us.
America: where progressive means making shit more difficult for those with the least, and making it less difficult for those with the most.
The water slugs down the incline of the earth the same way gravity drags a tear down your eye But instead of cells alive, cells vibrant it runs along the backs of ancient diatoms who lost light half a billion years ago
The water is a story, that will speed-up, and slow, grow narrow or collect— when it goes deep, it goes direct, with sunlight going through it, like words might a heart, filtering through all of this debris, down to a solid bottom, looking like imperfections in a diamond a perch or minnow school might get caught—
As if in a moment of time, when you’re unsure whether you’re in a dream or not whether you’re in a memory or not or if time is still running solid
Like a society where ideas whirl, where history coalesces into tradition, into religions and laws and clothing and food and songs All jumbled up by the travels of explorers and the cares and worries of those at home—the water explodes at the molecular level
Fish producing molecules like dandelion puff and blowing it away like wishes into pools Leaves leaving the sunlight and flowing down from above like a colored snow, letting leak all their insides into the community of microbes, and solutes in the solvent which like magic, ties everything together
How come old peoples, could think of Rivers or Oceans, or Rain as divine things, as old hoary deities? Because of this complexity— I don’t think we can begrudge them their beliefs too much—if anything was a god water ways would be.
Depth exists everywhere.
If you stuck your hand into a pool of water, you could study that your entire life. You could study it as a poet, as a painter, as a chemist, as a physicist.
It’s not entirely understood, putting your hand into a pool of water. It’s magically complex. What makes light refract, how come the light slows down when it goes through the water. Why does the feel cool, how come your hand can go through it, how come it makes your skin go all squiggly after a while?
Mathematics could cover thousands of blackboards, and yet not perfectly describe its behavior. In general you could describe it, but I mean if you wanted to keep track of every water molecule, every intermolecular interaction.
Some painters specialize in water. David Hockney spent months studying the pattern water makes of sunlight on the bottom of pools for a painting. Poets use water to express all kinds of things.
Something so mundane—a hand in a pool of water. What about a shoe on concrete; a dragon fly; an acorn; the smell of earth; the autumn moon/an autumn wind; a sense loneliness; a sight of love; a taste of bread; a few notes of a song. Depth is everywhere.
How come life isn’t fearsome? Because you can dive into it at any point, and be comforted by mystery.